A Powder Train of Eight Bullets
by Kchan88
Summary: My small contribution for Barricade Day 2014 and the remembrance of the June Rebellion. In his last moments as the eight bullets strike, Enjolras thinks of his friends. He thinks of the fact that wars are not just won by victories, they are won by losses too. In the end, what they have done will matter, because what they believed in will prevail. One day, Paris will rise.


**One**

_Combeferre_

_Penetrating Eloquence_

The bullet hits very near to Enjolras' heart. His shirt is wet with blood instantly, red flowering onto the white and blooming across the material.

Combeferre.

Corrected. Completed.

Understood to the depth of his being, on good days and bad.

He hears a soft voice in his head. Combeferre's voice.

_These things will never die, even if we do…we will share thy fate…to be free…_

Hands covered in ink as he goes over Enjolras' pamphlet drafts.

A reassuring hand on his shoulder.

Heads bowed together over a book.

Debates. Learning from one another. Challenging, expanding.

A warm embrace on days when the world felt like too much, when his reserves of hope and belief needed replenishing. Combeferre's embrace felt like home more than his parents' house ever had.

Combeferre.

Dearest friend. Philosophy to his logic. An inspiration that fueled his hope. The guide.

Progress. Sweet, beautiful progress like the sun rising in the distance and filling the world slowly but inevitably with light.

**Two**

_Courfeyrac_

_Verve_

The bullet hits mere inches away from the first. More blood. So much red flooding onto the jacket Courfeyrac gave him. The red jacket for his fiery spirit, Courfeyrac said.

Courfeyrac.

Laughter. Sunshine pooling his eyes even on the darkest days.

Paper tossed into a fire, blackened and curling at the edges.

Passionate anger that matched his own. Wit and absolute belief in their work.

_The pulse of the medical school, Enjolras? Don't think I didn't notice your pun. Bravo._

An arm around his shoulder as they walk the streets of Paris. A gentle hand pulling a book out of his hand and urging him to sleep.

Always diving into the fray, together. Scoffing at their law professors.

Brown curls styled to near perfection. A parade of hats, always lost.

Love. So much love pouring out of him. Loyalty to the last.

Their center, the glue that melded them all together.

Courfeyrac.

Combeferre.

Always on either side of him, anchoring him.

**Three**

_Feuilly_

_Cosmopolitan Enthusiasm_

The bullet hits his shoulder. Pain, but it happens too fast for his brain to process.

Feuilly.

A soft, shy smile.

Sleeves rolled up, hat perched on his head, faded paint stains on his fingers that grasp a book.

Thirst and eagerness for knowledge bursting in his eyes as he beckons Enjolras over with an animated gesture.

International politics. History.

Late nights in the Musain and the Corinthe, talking until closing.

_This book Enjolras, you must borrow it. I stayed up far too late reading, I nearly overslept this morning._

Tired eyes that always hold the gleam of friendship.

No man without a country. A wide embrace.

Wisdom. Quiet affection for his found family of friends.

Feuilly.

Determination. Perseverance. Such immense courage.

Valiant working man.

**Four**

_Jean Prouvaire_

_Melancholy_

The bullet strikes his abdomen, stealing his breath.

Prouvaire.

Poetry. Stacks of volumes. Ink on his fingers, sheaves of paper.

Random notes everywhere. About everything.

Religion. Women's rights. Education. _Everything._

A skull used as a flower pot sitting on the windowsill in his rooms.

Intrepid.

No hesitation as he pulled the stool out from under a man who threatened a friend in his presence.

Words as inspiration. A love he shared with Enjolras as they sat over pamphlets and speeches.

_Beautiful Enjolras, simply moving. Let me add something here…_

Jehan.

Tears of joy in his eyes. Tears of sorrow.

A blindfold. Five words.

_Long Live the Republic_!

**Five**

_Joly_

_Science_

The bullet hits his other shoulder, and he's starting to feel pinned to the wall.

Joly.

Through the pain he smiles.

Because it is impossible to avoid smiling when thinking of Joly.

Medical books piled high. Perfectly done anatomy sketches.

His voice nervous as he studies with Combeferre even though he knows the information. He just wants to be certain.

_I heard about this dreadful disease today in my lesson, Enjolras, I do hope none of us contract it._

Checking his tongue in a mirror.

His cheeks red with laughter and wine as he sits at the table with Bossuet and Grantaire. The dreamy tone in his voice when he first met Musichetta.

Affectionate but practiced hands prodding Enjolras' ribs after he'd gotten kicked there by a police officer after a rally turned accidental riot.

_Not broken, thankfully. Bruised though. You shall stay here for a bit under my watchful eye, hmmm?_

Spinning around on his cane in the middle of the street and tipping his hat to the rest of them, winking.

Ridiculous leather trousers.

Jolllly.

A man of science who gave his heart to the revolution.

**Six**

_Bossuet_

_Sarcasms_

The bullet hits diagonally down from the previous one, somewhere near his hip.

Bossuet.

Always ready with a helping hand, always ready with a smile.

Rubbing his head and rolling his eyes as he told an embarrassing story, always with a good-natured grin.

Whispered, easy words into Grantaire's ear when he had a bad day.

His arm looped through Joly's as they left the café.

Jaunting with Enjolras to visit other cafes and groups, always offering to come along.

_I think I have charmed them, Enjolras_. A wry grin and a raised eyebrow, amusement flickering in his features, teasing. _You were perhaps a small bit of assistance_.

Delightful puns. A look at Enjolras from across the room, who snorts with laughter, looking up from his work.

Their Eagle.

A generous heart. A good nature. Overflowing with kindness.

**Seven**

_Bahorel_

_Laughter_

The bullet hits his hand.

Bahorel.

Bahorel taught him Savate with that hand.

Never a lawyer. Never.

Laughter booming across the room, his eyes lit with it. Tears in his eyes, hands grasping at his aching sides.

Bruised knuckles. Anger flaring in his eyes. A strange sort of wisdom.

A hand clapping Enjolras' back.

_See? I taught you well, didn't I? Wasn't planning on getting into a brawl, but we managed to win that one, you and me. _

Rash, bright waistcoats. Scarlet opinions.

A raised glass.

The air of an older brother who would most certainly get you into trouble.

Bahorel.

The one who went first, defiance in his eyes till the last.

**Eight**

_Grantaire_

_This made him think of Grantaire._

The final bullet hits the center of his chest, pinning him to the wall. Grantaire's hand tightens around his own.

Enjolras' heart fills with something he cannot even quite name. Belief so strong it takes away any breath he has left. There are seconds remaining. The darkness closes in, clouding his eyes even as the sun rises beyond the window.

Grantaire.

Wine. Classics. Talent. Art. Struggle. Boxing. Skeptic. Wild. Doubt.

_I believe in you._

Friendship. Always friendship.

Grantaire is here with him in these moments, here with him as death approaches. Grantaire, the friend and the mystery who confounded him, who frustrated him and yet who he trusted with their society's secrets. Grantaire, the self-proclaimed skeptic that Enjolras not so deep down hoped would one day find his faith.

He has.

Because even if he might say it is just because of Enjolras himself, one cannot believe in a person without believing at least a bit in what that person stands for.

_I am one of them!_

A gentle question.

_Do you permit it?_

His hand reaching out for Grantaire's.

_You shall die and be born again with me. Day embraces night. _

Death is coming. A fraction of a second away. But fear has no place here because love fills Enjolras' heart to the brim. Love of all kinds, flowing intensely and free.

For his friends. For the man beside him. For his country. For his people. For Paris.

Grantaire's hand squeezes his and he squeezes back.

France will rise. Paris will rise like Grantaire rose from slumber to stand by his side.

History tells the story of victory in war, but victories come not just from battles won, but from battles lost. Battles lost that inspire those left behind and those not yet born.

_A group which nearly became historic. _

In the end, they will win.

Darkness closes in, death comes. Enjolras starts a smile. The sun floods through the window, bathing the two in light, hands still linked.

_Love, thine is the future. _


End file.
